Destroyer of Worlds
by Morta's Priest
Summary: Gotham's dark guardian, who watches over the city as its silent protector, comes upon a string of murders that defy explanation, that seem impossibly perfect. Commissioner Gordon, meanwhile, is pressured to allow international help in the investigation. The underworld never sleeps. Neither does L. (Jointly written with Nauro. No pairing.)
1. Of Birds and Men

**Destroyer of Worlds**

**by Nauro & Morta's Priest  
**

* * *

"_The human whose name is written in this note shall die." - _Rules of the Death Note

* * *

_My creed to protect the city, even as it plunged deeper into darkness, led me through both the lightest and darkest corners of Gotham city. The manor I was in served as an example of both these extremes. It had belonged to the Cobblepot family for many a generation; like Gotham in its glory days, it used to sparkle with fake pride and real jewels. Now the house had been run down, a shadow of its former glory. I have seen this happen hundreds of times across Gotham, but even throughout all these years, I have never gotten used to how fast everything could be damaged, reduced to rubble._

_The reason for my visit was an interesting rumor; according to the word on the streets, someone had a big play on his hands here. I knew the address; I knew what game would be played here. Tonight, for Oswald Cobblepot, that game had ended. Change had come to his family mansion, and not the good kind; fate had once again chosen to strike against Gotham. I had to be vigilant._

_The rumors were true: Oswald, the man known as Penguin in the darkest corners of the city, had been plotting yet another scheme, and I had followed the clues that were spread around the city, gathered from criminals and lowlives. As it always was, money and fear of his influence were the things that ruled the underworld, and he had wanted to have even more. There were aspects of the case, however, that I had not expected._

The dark shadow descended on the mansion, armed with will and resilience, hoping to shed light on the matter. Darkness and vengeance personified, the guardian of the city was hunting for justice.

But, for once, he did not find it.

The Aviary, the biggest wing of the Cobblepot mansion, was overwhelmed by a cacophony of noises. There were high-pitched screams of many kinds of fowl, the clatter of furniture struck down by stray wings and claws. It was mind-boggling just how much noise a flock of birds could introduce to dead silence, and it took Batman a moment to adapt. The animals were milling about in frenzied confusion, trying to find freedom from the cage that the Aviary had become; the whole wing was locked, its every window closed shut, the faint light of the moon shining through the highest windows that were far too sturdy to break under the feeble assault. And it reeked in the hall too. Of birds, feathers, and death; there was even a hint of iron in the air.

It was not easy to surprise the Batman, but the grotesque display before him managed it. The Penguin was dead, unmoving, amidst the crowds of panicking birds, his body covered in feathers and scratches. His clothes were in tatters, his top hat thrown away in a corner, crumpled. His bare head, missing patches of hair, was covered with claw marks as well. The worst things, though, were his eyes. They were staring at Batman in frozen fear, encased in an expression forever locked in the rigor mortis, the eyes shining bright in the darkness. Those eyes had seen something, a last terrifying scene glimmering in the deepest ends of the dark soul of a madman.

Oswald's neck looked swollen and his mouth hung slightly open, betraying a strange glimmer of metal inside. Carefully making his way through the herd of birds that used the first chance to try and get away from the room, Batman looked for some kind of explanation. His each step was calculated, sidestepping the occasional dead bird and quite a few misplaced coins on the ground.

The Aviary was a clever choice for a murderer as his killing ground; ironic, perhaps, as Batman did not believe that suicide was ever a viable hypothesis in this case. If Oswald wanted to kill himself, he would not have chosen to do so in front of the birds. The Penguin's psychological profile suggested a devotion to everything with feathers, which edged on insanity. The birds, released from whatever confines the Penguin had held them in, would have covered the murderer's tracks well, making anything of importance extremely hard to spot.

So far he had not found any hint of a killer, and that was a worrying observation. There were coins and crumpled notes scattered everywhere, easily worth thousand dollars. Was this the result of a struggle for money? It would be a petty sum for a man with Oswald's connections, for one whose life had been spent looking for illegal ways to build a fortune.

Batman leaned forward, scanning the body more closely. Time of death: Three to four hours ago, putting it somewhere around midnight. Scratches and bruises were superficial, nothing serious enough to kill. Carefully, he shone a small penlight into Penguin's mouth. There were coins there; the small man appeared to have choked on a fistful of them. The man's mouth was bloody, a tooth was missing. No, he realized, there it was - lying along the wall, alongside a clump of hair. The bruises on the Penguin's body indicated a prolonged struggle, and the damage to the clothing seemed consistent with a fight, and the panicked motions of the birds. Both the bruises and the tearing of cloth had occurred simultaneously, as the rips in the clothing were marred with blood.

Inspecting the remains even more closely, he found bits flesh under Oswald's fingernails. There was a chance that DNA analysis would reveal some clues as to the attacker. He took a sample, and moved on. There were many dead birds spread around the Penguin's grizzled corpse, from small sparrows to actual penguins. A lot of the corpses were torn apart, some with broken necks, some, especially smaller ones, bitten almost in half.

All of the cages in the Aviary were open. None looked to be forced; the one responsible had to have used the keys. The locks were not all that complex, but none had signs of tampering. A bowl, with traces of bird food, was turned over next to Oswald's body, and something glimmered from under it. Flipping it over, Batman found the keyring; a quick scan of the fingerprints matched with the ones in the Gotham's Police database - Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot. No luck.

It looked like the fear locked in Oswald's gaze was to be the only clue of the night. But it would not do to be too hasty in his speculations; it was not often that he found a career criminal like this dead, after all. He _would _get to the core of this.

* * *

Some time after the events at Cobblepot mansion, a lone man waited impatiently on the roof of Gotham's central police station. The night was slowly heading to its end; the city on the verge of waking up for a new day, blissfully unaware of what happened in the dark. A narrow beam of light pierced deep into the sky, reflecting off the clouds; a call from a man wishing for answers.

"You found the body." The voice sounded rough, fake, echoing strangely in the darkness.

"Yes." The Commissioner did not admit to any surprise at the sudden appearance of the dark-clad vigilante. He turned off the signal as he looked up to the figure standing in the shadows and nodded in recognition. "Oswald Cobblepot was found dead in his manor a few hours ago. The only clue I have is that Batman was going to pay him a visit."

"Someone got there before me."

"I didn't mention anything about the fact that you might be involved." Commissioner Gordon started pacing around, frowning. "This is complicated enough as it is. Everything is these days, it seems. First the family, then the Penguin's activities, and now _this _– I'm exhausted. It isn't the only murder on my hands, you know, and Interpol is breathing down my back about it as well. There have been quite a few killings lately that are too similar in their execution to be just a coincidence."

"I'll look into it. If there is a serial killer at large, I will find him." Batman, in fact, had already done some work on the case, spending yet another sleepless night to read all the related material he could find on the Penguin's latest activities, his latest interactions with other criminals that he could interrogate. Interpol believed that there was an international organization or a group of madmen at large; he had already broken into their database to find the details. Each killing involved an elaborate methodology to scare the victim half to death, followed by the kill, and topped off with a complete lack of any evidence to lead to the perpetrator. So far.

"I hope that you do." Gordon let his gaze wander to the moving cars below, over the city that was going about its usual business, as if nothing was wrong. As if no one had been in danger of meeting an untimely end tonight; someone already had. "Is there anything you can say about the Penguin's death, that the guys in lab won't be able to tell me in a few hours?"

"Not much, but there is some. This is a challenge to the criminals of the city, a play of power. When a man is killed in an enclosed space like this, with no signs of entry nor exit, and no visible trail to follow, some might say it's a perfect murder." Batman paused, Gordon hanging on his every word. "It's not. There is no such thing as a perfect crime. There are always reasons and methods, there always exists a connection to follow. I'll find the ones responsible."

"I pray that you are right." Gordon's reply was caught only by the darkness, as the masked vigilante was already gone. The Commissioner smiled as he looked out into over the city, the dawn creeping over the horizon. He was sure that if anyone would get down to the truth of this, it would be Batman. After all, he was the world's greatest detective.

* * *

The little fruit loops balanced precariously as they swayed back and forth, buffeted by the slow breaths. Another loop, just like the others, was placed on top of the stack at a precise angle, just enough to offset the wobble entirely. The structure stabilized. L sighed in contentment. The light trace of artificial vanilla and lime in the air made his mouth water with anticipation.

"You shouldn't play with your food," Watari muttered disapprovingly as he noticed the little tower. "You will cover everything if it falls, and I'm not cleaning up after you. Not again."

L looked up with shadowed eyes, snatching the top ten loops from the tower in a single move and depositing them into his mouth, smacking loudly as he considered their taste. They were sweet, of course, with a slightly tangy edge to them. These had probably been a bit too old to eat, but it was not often that he found anything sweet in the pantry at all, and he had taken advantage of Watari's oversight. The old man was very meticulous about keeping him from eating too many sweet things, even if he eventually gave in to requests, so L had to know when to take advantage of these bouts of forgetfulness. Even if slightly unhealthy, the sweets were still delicious.

"You are well aware that 'playing' with my food is a complex mathematical challenge, not a child's foolish endeavour," L asserted after a moment, his eyes never wavering. "To keep my brain functioning effectively, I require challenges. My job as detective, I am sorry to say, has lacked in challenge over the last several weeks. I am beginning to get _bored. _The brain requires sustenance or it starts shrinking, decreasing my capacity for solving further crimes."

Watari sighed softly as he moved over. "Will you at least consider looking at the latest cases, then? There are many awaiting your attention, and you keep dismissing them all as too easy. Why not do something a little easier then, until more is available for you?"

L rose up from his comfortable crouched position with excruciating slowness, lifting up his cup with stacked fruit loops by its handle, and very carefully moving it with him as he walked to the table. "Show me what it is that you believe I should solve, Watari. I have seen nothing of interest, only boring kidnappings and even more simplistic murders. They are contemptibly easy to solve for even the regular police."

Watari sat down with a long-suffering sigh, opening the little laptop that he almost always carried in the pocket of his waist-length leather coat. A large letter 'W' was printed on the lid in a beautiful font, the same that L preferred for his own signature. His eyes roved over the screen for a few moments as he clicked and tapped his way to his mail messages. L could follow his progress by the sound of the keystrokes; ALT key, left-mouse click, another mouse click, receive messages.

"Seven cases. High priority ones, that is, including one that has Interpol notification requesting your involvement. There are _dozens_of other cases that remain open as well, though they are less urgent."

L shook his head. "First case: Robert Murphy, murdered in Scotland, fourth of June, last year," he recited without glancing at the screen that was presented to him. "Found in one of Scotland's Lochs with a knife embedded in his sternum. Millionaire, fresh off a merger that increased his wealth substantially. A grieving widow and a caring friend of the family who helped arrange the funeral are listed as primary beneficiaries." He looked up. "90% chance that the caring friend is the widow's lover, and that the killing was related to the money that they were to inherit. Expectation: The widow will marry the friend within six months, citing their close relationship in the wake of her husband's death. The couple will move away with the full sum of money, and it mysteriously disappears into foreign bank accounts before any inquiries can be made."

"Well, that's very judgmental of you," Watari replied, affronted.

"Benedict Anders, former Englishman adopted into a German family. Accused of seven murders occurring between June to October of last year, though DNA evidence contradicts his involvement in any of the crimes. Each of the killings was witnessed publically and all photographic evidence suggests that Anders is responsible nevertheless. 30% chance of a look-alike abusing the similarity. 60% chance that Anders carries two DNA-signatures instead of one. Chimaera syndrome."

Watari frowned. "Is that even possible?"

L ignored the comment. "Oswald Cobblepot, suspected involvement with crime circuit, found murdered by unknown parties two days ago. Choked on money he was likely made to devour, though there are few specifics. Suspected to be the work of a serial killer, though the connection here is speculative at best. Interpol seems confident, but they always are, even when it's decidedly unwarranted." He looked up with dull eyes. "90% chance it is criminal warfare, since this occurred in Gotham City, well known for heavy gang activity and numerous criminal elements."

Watari shook his head tiredly. "These are all valid cases, I should think. Merely waving them off as inconsequential will not make your work any more interesting."

"These cases are _boring,_" L argued immediately. "They are mundane, they have simple solutions from basic premises. I have solved seventeen minor crimes in the last two weeks, and each of them was barely any more difficult than these supposed quandaries. The police is merely being lazy, choosing to rely on their best when such is not warranted. If I am not truly needed, I refuse to be put to work merely to give someone an afternoon off." He scowled as he took a sip from his tea. "This drink is cold."

"It's been there for two hours. I _did _tell you it would cool down."

"Warm it up again," L responded, holding out the cup by its rim, dangling it from two fingers; it wobbled dangerously. "I don't drink cold tea, it is disgusting. Also, add more sugar. I can still taste the bitterness. Four more cubes, please."

"You will need to choose something, or you will lose credit among the international circuit," Watari warned. He rose up from his seat, and L figured he was being deliberately ignored now. Good. Perhaps he would have some time to consider what to do when he did not have any cases. There was definitely _something_ he could be doing, but he was not sure what it was yet.

The old man closed the door behind him, but L didn't even notice. He began stacking fruit loops once again.

* * *

"_This is Wammy's House."_

"Roger. Good," Watari said, running a hand through the tuft of hair he had left."I hoped to speak to you for a few moments."

"_Of course... is something wrong?_"

Watari hesitated. "It's... L is under-stimulated by the recent rash of relative peace," he said finally. "With his fame higher than it has ever been, criminals have limited their activities to avoid his attention. The calm is having... stifling effects on his activity levels. He has spent several days distracting himself, but that cannot last."

"_Such is the risk for people like L,_" Roger agreed after a few moments. "_Near and Mello already display such behaviour, even though they do not take after L in all other respects. I believe the only cure is a good puzzle."_

"L breaks puzzles easily," Watari complained. "He calculates chess moves in his head - he knows the odds of winning against me before we even play, and gets annoyed when I do not move the pieces quickly enough for his liking."

"_Then he must have a case. Any case." _Roger cleared his throat. "_I have received a call from Interpol already, concerning your lack of response to one of their latest serial killers. A possible international hitman, as I understand it. Though it may be uninteresting compared to other cases, perhaps it is a good idea that L solve it anyway."_

"You want me to sign him up," Watari concluded. "He will resent it."

"_Bribe him with sweets."_

"He already eats too many..."

"_We cannot afford to waste a mind like his. Indulge him, and keep him productive." _

Watari nodded, though nobody was there to see it. "I will accept those cases on his behalf, then. Hopefully the ice in my own fridge will be enough to make up for it. I don't think the six-number combination lock has been cracked, as of yet."

"_Call me if there are further developments. I will keep sight on the house until the end of the season. I think everyone would be happy to see you again."_

Watari doubted that, but hung up without mentioning it.

"I will only accept cake," L called from the other room. "I have already eaten your ice cream. Also, you forgot that the wall is thin. Your memory is getting worse. Perhaps you should make an appointment with the neurologist."

Fantastic. Watari shook his head in annoyance as he considered where to get some more snacks at eleven in the evening. The only reason he put up with this behaviour, odious though it was, was pure and simple duty. The fact that he did not complain - much - betrayed just how complex his life really was, and how much he wished it to remain that way.

L was tough to work with; the orphanage's greatest creation, and its worst monster. L was peculiar, and eccentric, and probably a little mad. After all, he was the world's greatest detective.

* * *

"_This note will not take effect unless the writer has the person's face in their mind when writing his/her name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected." - _Rules of the Death Note

* * *

**Author's Note:** This is a cooperative little project with Nauro, who also has an account on FFnet. Hope to get some good feedback on the concept and so forth, let us know what you think.


	2. Fight or Flight

**Case II - Fight and Flight**

* * *

"_If the cause of death is written within the next 40 seconds of writing the person's name, it will happen."- _Rules of the Death Note

* * *

The Iceberg Lounge. The place was a glaring power vacuum, a ripe fruit someone was bound to collect sooner or later. The recent demise of Oswald Cobblepot seemed to have done a favour for the nightclub's popularity. Alongside many questions that death raised in Batman's mind, checking out the club had been a priority. To scourge up any information that might be helpful; to find whatever could be found, until the new owner would clear the whole thing to its bare bones.

How long would it take for the Penguin's lackeys to pack everything and run? Not long. He had to hurry - it wasn't a time for a subtle infiltration, but rather a much more direct use of force. In this aspect, this visit to the Iceberg Lounge would be different than ones before.

There were only two thugs guarding the back entrance. One - a visible distraction, was placed right at the door, looking bored, smoking with his back leaned on the wall. His breaths, coupled with the smoke from the cigarette, revealed his position despite the dark attire he had embraced.

His partner was stationed inside the club, intently watching the back door from the second floor window. Music pouring from the nightclub's windows as well as dancing lights hid his presence a very well. The man had a pair of binoculars and a rifle. Military grade equipment - Penguin had been famed for his good connections.

For a man that was supposed to guard the nightclub, he proved very ineffective. A short metal clatter somewhere above his chosen window didn't call the man to attention, neither did a buzz of strong, thin line. A dark shape soared downwards.

The sound of shattering window was muffled by an especially loud piece playing at the highest volume. The loud bass guitar and the drums highlighted the short struggle. The man's eyes widened as a heavy boot slammed into his side, followed by a sharp jab at his throat, forbidding whatever cry of surprise he wanted to expel. The man fell on the ground like a tree log, his hands were quickly tied in a bundle behind his back.

His hands busy with disassembling the rifle to render it unusable, Batman took a look at the street below - the other sentry hadn't noticed anything. Everything was going according to the schedule. He set his belt's chronometer for a double beep at five minute mark - it had been a shortest time the two guards went without using their transceivers between themselves. He would be finished in three. Four, if he was unlucky.

The music was running upstream - the song only doubled in intensity, heavy rhythm making the walls vibrate slightly, a perfect cover for anything he wanted to do inside.

A short run through an empty corridor, past the small elevator, placed Batman right next to an electronically locked door. Child's play. A small device gave of a light buzz, locking itself on top of the advanced lock mechanism. Opening a handheld display Bruce started fine-tuning the controls. Carefully, with short, calculated moves, he spun a small wheel, the display running through the possible frequencies, quickly applying modifications, improving the chances of the sequence matching the lock's code.

A beep confirmed the sequence was complete. The lock clicked three times, releasing its hold. Twelve seconds. He was in the Penguin's private area of the club.

He was not alone.

A woman was there, putting the contents of a small wall safe in a large handbag. Her hair was short cut, brown; her clothes - darker. Her heavy - reinforced - leather west could probably save from a cut, but not from a bullet. Six short-handle knives were hanging on her belt, another in a sheath on her right thigh. She didn't wear any heels, opting for a more practical, heavier shoes.

Fat double glass window allowed flickering light from the right side of the room - Bruce knew that it doubled as a one-way mirror. It opened a view of the bar, and the huge iceberg in the middle of the main room. The dance floor was aglow with colours, the nightclub guests moving in a rhythmic, yet very chaotic mesh of dancing bodies.

As the door opened, the music, echoing loudly in the corridor, took a chance to take over the Penguin's private area too. Apparently - it was more sound proof than any other rooms in the nightclub. The change in volume was too swift for the open door not to be noticed.

She turned towards Batman, two shining knives jumping into her hands, and hissed a curse. Her face, partially covered with a leather mask, revealed slightly slanted eyes and unnaturally white skin - make up. She was Penguin's lackey - one of the twin knife-wielding assassins.

Batman launched himself forward. He had faced off with them once - and had a couple of scars to prove it - so it would not do him good to hesitate even a second. Her fighting stance had not changed in that time, luckily for him. Thus, he leaned down below her kick before it even was close.

She, already in the midst of the high attack, tried to fix her mistake, but Batman's firm low kick sent her tumbling to the ground. He blocked her lightning fast knife swing with his left hand, the knife only scratching at the heavy protector, and with his right hand, he pushed her body down.

She slammed in the ground with a muted thump, one of her weapons falling out. The music was swirling around them as she jumped back up, ready for more. He had to press on, not giving her a moment of respite. She countered his feint with a knifeless hand, and missed a kick that disarmed her completely.

Fast strikes, Batman reminded himself, watch where she is going to strike from and meet her head on. Giving a second long window of respite could be a fatal mistake. Still, there was a nagging feeling that he should have noticed something important.

Then, it struck him. Twins. The heavy kick sent him reeling to the side. In the time he took to recover from the unexpected blow, the first sister drew two knives in each of her hands, holding them as makeshift claws. The other one held three in each, her stance ready for a prolonged struggle.

Bruce unfixed a small can from his belt, dropping it on the ground. The loud music had been muffling all sounds for quite a while, and the rapidly pouring dark gass was going to take care of the vision. As for himself - he had been prepared.

The fight was already over, even though the twins tried to struggle. A thermal visor in a room full of dark smoke worked wonders. Once more becoming one with the darkness, the Batman fought with an array of calculated, unblockable and unpredictable strikes.

All the twins could hope now, was to successfully lash out at him during the short window his each strike gave them, while his form was briefly visible in the darkness... Even with a back-to-back stance, they couldn't hope to win. They tried to double back towards the entrance, but Batman had anticipated it, and a quick swipe with his leg sent the twins sprawling on the ground.

One of the sisters threw a knife blindly, a lucky hit glancing his shoulder. Once more, his armoured costume proved to be resilient enough, and he, once again, remained unscathed, but for a small bruise.

He got one of them in another second - in a moment of her hesitation, he grabbed the opponent into a chokehold, and dragged her away from the other twin. Putting her on the ground, unconscious, he locked her hands with a pair of handcuffs, just in case.

Meanwhile, the second twin launched herself at the window, grabbing a metal chair that she had bumped into moments before. There was a loud crash, and the window fractured. He jumped to intercept her, but her next blow shattered the first layer of glass. He tried to restrain her, but she managed to grab his hand and with an unexpected spin, she used his momentum against him. It wasn't a perfectly executed move, as that pushed her into the window too. Both their bodies were enough to send pieces of glass and mirror down on the bar. Bruce managed to twist enough to land partially on her, breaking the wooden top of the bar in the process. At least he removed the second twin from the fight.

The music stopped. Batman stood up, slightly swaying from the crash. Someone was shouting something, his head was spinning. With a lot of sweating bodies in the room and bright warm lights, his thermal vision was filled with various blobs of bright red. He quickly turned it off, and readied the grapple gun.

The crowd of the Iceberg Lounge, despite, or because, the ritziness of the location, where a shady bunch. Many of them were mobsters who held some sort of grudge against Batman. It was just his luck. As a rule, all kinds of side arms were supposed to be taken from the visitors, but there were a few hidden ones in the crowd. A woman screamed as the first shots were fired.

The grapple gun spat out a heavy dart. It went through the place where a one-way mirror once was, embedding itself firmly in the ceiling. With the buzz of the rolling rope Batman was gone back into the concealing darkness of the gassed chamber. He was at the safe in seconds, crouched, so the shots would fly overhead. Bruce grabbed both the bag on the ground, and a few more papers that were still inside. Everything else seemed to already have been removed into the handbag.

He couldn't take the handcuffed twin with him - not because of the extra weight, but just because the Commissioner wouldn't find anything to pin her down with. Having knives tailored for use in combat or being found in a private quarters of her recently deceased employer couldn't have been evidence strong enough to lock her behind the bars.

Someone was approaching through the stairs, but Bruce didn't delay a second longer. He ran up to the surprised guard, tore the pistol from his hands, delivering a short yet powerful punch to the man's solar plexus. Then, his cloak billowing after him, Batman jumped out of the same window he arrived through - a line still ran from there up to the next building. He grabbed the conveniently placed sheave and was off, the small motor working overtime to bring him to the other side as quick as possible.

In five more seconds, ones that felt the longest for him, for if someone noticed a dark silhouette gliding in the air they could have opened fire, he was on the roof of the nearby apartment building. A press of the button sent the cable spinning back to him, no one the wiser of his current whereabouts.

His belt beeped. Twice.

* * *

Alfred was once more using the lift, his hands firmly holding a tray with breakfast. Bruce Wayne, for all his experience, behaved like a child sometimes. The bed had been left the same as it was in the evening - Bruce didn't even pretend to have caught a whiff of sleep. It was not an unusual sight for the faithful servant and friend, but three days with next to no rest was pushing it too far.

Slowly, he descended into the city's guardian's hideout - the cave had been shrouded by darkness, the way towards the complicated amalgam of display screens and keyboards dimly lit. Only the light above the workstation was shining bright, sending the shadows scattering toward the sides of the room.

The elevator landed with but a soft thump, yet it was enough for Bruce to jump to attention. Seeing that it was just Alfred - who else it could have been - he turned back to what he was doing for the last few hour.

He had been sitting in a chair before several computer screens, looking through various information files. Names, pictures, dates and photo's of the crime scenes filled four screens. A fifth one was running a series of sequences, a running line of text quickly disappearing from the view. The last one was a map - a miniature world map, littered with red dots, and a zoomed-in view of the Gotham City that had been covered with them too, the only difference were a few violet dots that were in some places instead of red ones.

"Master Wayne," Alfred cautioned. "I have brought you breakfast."

Bruce just nodded, but didn't turn to look back.

"You should rest a bit." Alfred continued. "It does not do to tire yourself too much."

"I can't."

"Do I need to remind you our talk about the man's limits?"

"It's too perfect to be true." Bruce ignored the remark. "All these deaths - they're too frequent, too exact. Look here - Arnold Flass. He's not even in the Interpol list - but he was found dead, splattered on the pavement next to his apartment. It was written down as suicide - it's impossible - the man had a case of severe Acrophobia."

"A person's mind is a wonderful thing - people might overcome their fears in the strangest ways. You yourself are an example of this." Alfred sighed. "But in this case, Master Wayne, you are not in the wrong."

"I've expanded on the Interpol list massively." Bruce motioned towards the forever increasing lists on the edge of one screen. "All of the deaths occurred at night, a distinct majority of them - nearing midnight. There - the latest one was Margaret Pye - time of death - five minutes after midnight, also not on the Interpol list. And they just keep dying."

As if on cue, a new dot, light red, appeared on the map with a silent blink.

"Frederick Charles Daly, Detroit, yesterday night." Bruce echoed, reading the small file that popped up in his fourth screen. "It fits." With a quick stroke on the keys, the new dot reddened fully.

"That was it." Alfred tapped his foot twice, impatiently. "You are taking a break."

"They aren't."

"With all due respect, sir, _you _need to rest if you want to see _them _caught."

Bruce grumbled, but turned his chair around and took the somewhat cold plate in his hands. With the first bite of the cooling omelet, he realised just how hungry he had been. Alfred wore a content smile as his master devoured the breakfast with a gusto.

"Would you like to drink your tea upstairs?" Alfred offered, hopeful. "Your case will not run away."

Bruce just gestured to one of the screens where yet another dot, this time - a simple red one, appeared. "Its ridiculous," he began once more. "When I started this..." He gestured around himself, towards the depths of the cave. "I was lead to believe that I was bringing people _justice_. My solemn vow to myself had been to never take a life - to value it alongside the free will of men. Even when there are times where the crime is cruel, when the criminal is calling for his own death - I have not taken a wrong step. Yet, somewhere out there - there are men, who have been doing exactly that - they're killing criminals. Most of the victims have a record in the police, all of them have done something wrong. Some are suspects, a few have walked away with their crimes unproven. All of them seem to die. I am trying to find them, to stop this madness, but there are but smoke and mirrors..."

"You believe that they might be right." Alfred accused. "But you do not want to admit it. Because, in your mind, believing that they can have some sort of moral ground to stand on - is a defeat. You are afraid to find yourself too much like them. You should not do so. The man I work for is not anything like them."

"There's only a step between killing all criminals, and killing everyone. I have seen the madness that lies there first hand." Bruce clenched his fists. "This isn't justice. This is mass murder."

"That it is, Master Wayne."

There was silence for a while.

"I think I'll take up your offer for tea." Bruce finally nodded, gesturing at the fifth screen. "There's some time till I the code on that thing is cracked - I suppose it wouldn't hurt to rest for a while." He reached for his hand clock, and fastened it on his hand, setting the alarm. "Quite a few hours left. In the meantime, I'm going to need you to visit the airport in an hour or so."

"Oh?"

"You could check up on the Wayne Enterprises private jet, and, since you're in the area - there's someone important that Interpol is supposed to send - please keep an eye out for anything interesting. Should be a small commotion with the local police force coming to pick him up."

"Will do, Master Wayne - if you promise to rest for today."

Bruce just sighed and nodded, starting to work his way up to the elevator. Alfred raised an eyebrow as he noticed the slight limp in Bruce's movements.

"I fell."

"I have heard - there was a mention in the morning news. Why can't you visit a normal nightclub?" Alfred sighed, resigned. "Was it worth it?"

"Yes," Bruce grinned to himself. "It gave me my first clue. Penguin is not just a crook - whoever managed to get a jump on him is good. I just have to keep my eyes open - all that work, it couldn't be just to kill for the sake of killing - there is always a motive - and even though I may be proven wrong in a few hours-" He turned to switch off the lights completely before entering into the lift. "Jonathan Crane has to be involved. I just need to find proof - a standing ground."

Only the running displays were glimmering in the darkness now.

And the tidal wave of the red dots was only rising.

* * *

To say that L was _atypical_ would be an understatement. Although Watari would never really state it out loud, nor complain about all his peculiar habits, L was well aware that he fell outside the norm of human behaviour. His mind was far quicker than those of ordinary men, his perceptions more intuitive and accurate, his brain wired in a way that defied scientific explanation: This was what allowed him to solve puzzles so perfectly. It was what had made him the best, second best, and third best detective in the world, under three different false names.

The boon of having an unparalleled mind, of course, came with its share of limitations and difficulties. Depression was always threatening to crash in whenever boredom took hold, and L had not had any semblance of friends in many years, though he could not muster much sadness about that particular shortcoming. He supposed that Watari was the closest thing he had to a close acquaintance. Besides his avoidance of socializing, his other habits were unusual but hardly destructive. He ate sweet food, but only because the taste could briefly distract him from contemplating the process of digestion which fueled his body; it was doubtful that he would eat a real meal at all, even if it was placed in front of him, unless it was vital to a case that he do so. He stayed thin, partly because his mind never stopped working and thus never stopped consuming nutrients, and partly because he kept a close eye on calorie intake, and supplemented vitamins where required. Presumably, Watari had not yet found out that he modelled his dietary habits to maximize the amount of sweet foods he could eat without negative effects.

There were other ways in which the difference was more pronounced. All of his bases of operations – nineteen, spread around the globe – were filled with books, many of them containing vast libraries of criminal data and studies for cross-referencing, alongside computer systems that could scour the internet at high speeds and had databases on every criminal case that was available in a digital format. L spent a lot of time reading, studying, comparing. One could hypothesize, quite validly, that this was strong evidence of a member of the intelligentsia, one who treasured knowledge. This was decidedly _not_ the case, nor had it ever been. L had always had a total lack of interest in academic pursuits for their own sake, favouring instead to read only what was of relevance to his profession. His memory, near-photographic, did the rest.

L sat crouched on his seat before his wall of computer screens, staring at the video images with sharp eyes, the black bags under them showing just how little interest in sleeping he really had; not that napping helped, given that his brain continued working even then, and frequently would not allow him to sleep further when it had deduced the truth behind a case from the facts it remembered. "Status, Watari?" he said, forcing himself to concentrate on the case at hand.

"_Fifteen minutes to landing, give or take,"_ the old man replied, one of the images moving briefly as Watari looked out the window of his airplane at the passing clouds. He was situated in the business section of the plane, though his section was conspicuously vacant aside from him. _"No unexpected disturbances at all, so far. I still say that the private jet would have been nicer."_

"It was also in Barcelona, and I've arranged for it to fly back to England. Should it become necessary, I can easily take that flight and head to Gotham," L replied. "I am not receiving any feeds from cameras seven through nine, incidentally. Please check their functionality. I believe the problem may be hardware-related."

"_I will do that,"_ Watari said, and for a few moments L watched the man trying to tap his buttons until they blinked on, and their video feed picked up again. There were nine hidden cameras on Watari's body, all of them sufficiently high in quality that L could observe and record all that the man came across in exquisite detail. It made sense, since internal matters were what often destroyed established police forces, and this method would quickly highlight problem areas before they became a sticking point. Furthermore, L was a nosy person.

"What's the name of your contact?" L asked suddenly as he frowned at his report. "The data I received is incomplete, it seems. I have a first name only, no details. I will require what information is available before you make contact with the police."

Watari cleared his throat._ "Commissioner James Gordon, a long-time employee of high standing. There are some questionable events in his professional history, but he was acquitted of all charges. He seems like your average person, L. You don't have to suspect everyone."_

"Of course I do." L frowned. He picked up his file and shook his head at the blatant mistake. 'First Name: Gordon, Last Name: [Unknown]'.

"_Something wrong?"_

"It seems that one of my sources is compromised," L replied distractedly. "Alternatively, they are dangerously incompetent. In either case, it seems that we will be needing a new analyst."

"_Did someone make a mistake again? Mistakes are not necessarily backed by criminal intent," _Watari muttered. _"The fact that you are meticulous does not apply to everyone, and you know that police databases can be shoddy."_

"Unfortunately," L said sourly. "Please inform me when you arrive at the precinct. I will see if I can track down what went wrong here, and arrange for a replacement data analyst as well. Keep me informed."

"_Of course."_

L sat back, plucking at his shirt. It was a little strange, being alone for a few days in this cavernous base of operations. Still, he was comfortable enough on his own, and there were enough supplies to survive a few weeks, should it be necessary. He doubted this case would take that long.

L walked over to his large table. It was covered almost entirely in various police reports and sketches and drawings of crime-scenes. Out of the three cases that Watari had insisted he take, this one was turning out to be the most interesting, by a wide margin. An assumed serial killer was involved in a sizable string of deaths that stretched across the country and beyond, leaving a trail of kills, but little in the way of evidence. Thus far, no direct evidence of foul play was detected, even at the sketchier presumed murders. The only reason that all these were grouped under one name were the uncanny similarities across a large number of different cases.

Gotham City, it turned out, was responsible for more than 30% of all the deaths in this pattern, easily outdistancing any other place, which implied that it was most likely to be the murderer's native location. Only Detroit came even near, but the rates there were four times lower _and_ exacerbated by phony reporting. It seemed that the pattern detected by Interpol had not gone unnoticed and already several copycats were trying to hide their own deeds in the shadow of a nastier villain. It would only be a matter of time before the media became involved.

The death of one Oswald Cobblepot, together with a plausible connection to other murders in this case, was the most interesting of the recent deaths. Serial killers were not generally very subtle, so this would most likely be a fairly quick case to unravel, but he had to admit to some bafflement when reading the case file and studying the crime scene photographs. Birds, thousands of them, surrounded an odd-looking man that had apparently choked on coins. There were no tracks in or out of the mess, and if there were any fingerprints or other traceable evidence, it would be hard to detect among the debris. With the first limited analyses coming in from the crime lab, it was still too early to really come to a conclusion here.

Autopsy of several bodies had already been scheduled, which should give a clearer picture as to the cause of death for the most recent potential murders. Meanwhile, he could study the city itself, and determine whether or not international incidents such as this were likely to be committed by any of Gotham's more tenacious criminals.

Gotham City was one of those cities that many news stories talked about, but which only occasionally popped up on his own professional radar. The city was rife with crime, but high-profile cases were frequently solved quickly, most likely due to an unusually competent police staff; in such a city, of course, experience was easy to come by. There were also stranger tales, that seemed downright preposterous to him. The Batman, in particular, was mentioned everywhere, a supposed stalker in the night that regularly got involved in police investigations as a vigilante.

"We will need an absolute count on this killer's victims," L murmured after a while, mostly to himself. Maybe he should consider studying this Batman, as a suspect. Someone crazy enough to wear a fancy animal suit and fight crime at night probably did not need much of a push to get into actual crimes. He tapped his collar, where he kept a little communication device. "Watari, please send me all information you obtain from the police regarding the Gotham killings. Use your private computer, and make sure that the connection is secure and encrypted. I need the Cobblepot murder's details in particular. I suspect it might be vital."

"...Alright. Any reason that the secure phone line should not be used instead?"

"Gotham cell service costs are unusually high," L replied. "It would cost a lot of money that way. Besides, it will allow you to introduce me to Commissioner Gordon. His reaction should be interesting."

"...Ah. You are aware we have a budget for cell costs, right?"

"Simply looking out for your financial interests, Watari. Just do it."

* * *

Watari stepped from the airplane with a quick gait, his eyes focused forward. This was always the most uncomfortable time of arriving in some new location: L's elaborate and annoyingly monotonous observations of a new locale, always delivered right into his ear with a complete lack of enthusiasm. As the years progressed, of course, there had been fewer and fewer locations which they had not already visited, so it was slowly becoming less common, but Gotham was new and shiny, and L was rife with speculation.

"_There are quite a lot of people in line, here for a simple business flight,"_ L commented. "_I see no high-profile individuals on the passenger list. Perhaps there are other people here who are undercover? At least it should help to cover your own arrival."_

"I should have take the private jet," Watari mumbled as he moved past the throngs that were welcoming family members and men in tidy business suits that welcomed similarly-clad people as they disembarked. "It's always like this..."

As he passed the first mass of people, he sought his escort; a police detachment would arrive soon to take him to the precinct, though he had been told that it could take a few minutes before it became clear that they were allowed to step in and fetch him, due to local regulations. As his gaze wandered across the hall, it briefly paused on a face, lined and weary, that met his eyes from the far side. He could have sworn...

"_Who is he?" _L demanded. "_I noticed your extended focus on a particular individual."_

Watari rubbed his ear gingerly. "An old acquaintance, I believe. Well before your time, actually."

L was silent for a long time, and Watari made his way to the far side of the hall, adjusting his tie. Since the local police had not received any physical description, he would have to approach them instead of the other way around. He flipped open his phone, and stared at it for a long moment. No messages. Clearly the police was taking a little longer than expected.

"_Please identify your acquaintance, Watari. Though I have advanced search algorithms for facial recognition, my databases are lacking for non-criminal individuals."_

"Alfred Pennyworth. Search for the Wayne murders, if you want his file," Watari mumbled. "It was a most deplorable affair. I was undercover and researching a possible mob-connection, though it never panned out, Pennyworth was persistently present. I believe he continued on as the Wayne valet, tending to the surviving child. I have not spoken to him in many years."

"_An acquaintance in Gotham, connected to one of the city's richest inhabitants, doubtlessly with a great many political connections? Please make contact, Watari. This could be very helpful. This will mean that you cannot easily switch your current attire out for another before the meeting with the police. We will have to make sure that you have time to renew your disguise shortly thereafter."_

Watari sighed. "Is this necessary? Alfred's already been involved in one brutal set of murders, do we really have to drag him into another?"

"_The issue here is not comfort, Watari. It's justice. Please make friendly contact. Bring up the topic of the recent murders in context of your former shared experiences, since the local media has been reporting them quite well. The police can wait a short while, as the Commissioner is not yet available in any case."_

Watari nodded wearily. "Very well..."

Walking up to Alfred, still looking on as the last passengers exited the plane, Watari put his hand on the man's shoulder with a forced smile. However much he disliked the idea, and however much he technically superseded L in authority, there was not much that could sway the young genius when he had an idea like this.

"Alfred Pennyworth!" He exclaimed, smiling. "How are you, old chap?"

Alfred turned around with raised eyebrows, vaguely puzzled. It took him a moment before he narrowed his eyes in thought. "You... I remember you. Ronald Richardson, wasn't it?"

"Right you are! Good memory," Watari agreed, glancing to the side. "I noticed you just standing here, and I just had to walk over and greet you again. I remember well how we shared many an excellent cup of tea together." He smiled. "Perhaps that tea place is still open? I'm afraid I haven't been in Gotham for years and years."

"Oh, I assure you that it is," Alfred noted. "I have been attempting to coax Master Wayne into trying their concoctions, but it seems he is less than interested. Alas, that is what you get when an Englishman moves to America, I suppose."

"Still a valet, huh?" Watari inquired. "Even after that whole affair back then?"

"Always," Alfred agreed. "I stayed on with Master Wayne despite the large changes, and it was not a bad decision. It is clear to me that he inherited many of the good traits of his parents, after all. I have my annoyances with his conduct, but the job is fulfilling. Sometimes it feels as if I have become entangled in the duties of a father."

"_I will be most displeased if you make a comparison to yourself, Watari. I am not a child."_

Watari smiled and ignored L. "I suppose you could say I have gone in the same direction. I'm sort of similarly employed right now. The hotel business went rather poorly in the last decade or two, so I didn't have much choice." He frowned. That had been his supposed persona at the time he had been involved in the local murder case: A hotel manager that was seeking to start a secondary one in Gotham, and had quite a bit of cash on hand. It had allowed him behind many closed doors. If he used that identity again, he would have to be careful that his public persona remained as such, while only exposing his real reasons for being here to police sources.

"Temperamental master, I imagine?" Alfred said as he sat down in one of the plastic chairs along the hall, jerking Watari out of his thoughts. "I know the feeling, I assure you. Master Wayne has trouble sleeping, sometimes, and he forgets to eat... I am always busy, trying to keep him from forgetting."

"_Sounds like a sensible person."_

"That's very familiar. I swear, my own charge just loves his sweet food, but skips all his vegetables, no matter how wonderfully I cook them. And lets not even start about sleeping – there are days he is still looking at stock prices at six in the morning, his bed untouched. It's unhealthy!"

Alfred chuckled. "Strange habits behind closed doors, too, I imagine? I think that is a common trait for all folks of high standing. They cannot show their oddness in public, after all."

"_I dislike where this is going."_

"Most definitely," Watari muttered. "Though - I'm sure you're not here to chit-chat with people you met years ago. I would not want to keep you busy."

"Master Wayne's private jet is due for an inspection," Alfred said, smiling slightly. "He gets quite upset when it is not available at a moment's notice, so he sent me to make sure it is there when he needs it. A bit nervous of him, perhaps, but he seems to appreciate my prudence."

"_I don't think he's lying. If he is, he must be an accomplished actor. My assessment of possible trickery might have been in error. Perhaps I underestimated the likelihood of a chance meeting." _

"I won't keep you here, of course." Watari shook his head. "By the way... and I know it might be insensitive to ask, but..."

"Yes, they found him," Alfred said after a moment. "It took a while, but they got him in the end. I figured you would like to know that, considering your interest back then, when the Waynes were so brutally attacked. I appreciated the compassion, you know."

Watari nodded. "How did the boy take it all?"

"He is no boy anymore," Alfred responded, raising an eyebrow. "He had a long time to get to grip with what happened, and not all his ways to deal with it were equally healthy. But, I think, he found a sort of equilibrium. Someone close to you dying can really shake someone up, you know."

"I understand." Watari grabbed his phone as it buzzed softly. A text message appeared: '_Police escort outside. Second entrance, first taxi._' He flipped the phone closed. "It seems that my ride has arrived."

Alfred smiled. "It was a pleasure to meet you again, Mr. Richardson."

"_Bug him. Just in case."_

"Ah... please, take this." Watari snatched a card from his breast pocket, holding it out. "As long as I'm in Gotham, perhaps I can once again taste the delicious tea that I remember from last time. The best outside of Britain, I'm sure of it."

Alfred took the card and nodded. "How long are you staying?"

"A few weeks, probably. Hopefully shorter, since I have many places to be." He gave a friendly nod as he turned to the doors. "Now, I should not let my taxi wait too long. I am already paying extra."

Watari left Alfred with his card - one that let out a low-level electronic signal that several satellites could easily trace via GPS.

* * *

"Commissioner Gordon?"

The man with dark-brown hair, a sizable mustache, and a rather antique pair of spectacles turned to him and nodded. "That is me, yes? Can I help you?"

Watari stuck out his hand in greeting as he stepped into the Commissioners office. "You may call me Watari. I am your liaison with the ICPO." He waited for a long moment before the man hesitantly shook the offered hand.

"They only sent _one _person? What was all the secrecy about, then?"

"We do not like to waste resources, Mr. Gordon," Watari said shortly. "I am here to interact with yourself and your investigative team, in order to solve the Midnight Murders, as you call them. I will be forwarding your research and conclusions to one of our very best crime analysts and detectives. His name is L."

The commissioner's eyes widened dramatically. "_L?! _Isn't that...?"

Watari simply nodded, taking a seat in front of Gordon's desk. "I trust that this information will remain a secret? It would be most unpleasant if it didn't." He set down a small laptop, flipping it open to reveal a stylized letter L. "Incidentally, L wishes to speak with you."

"_Good evening, Commissioner. I apologize if I interrupt your work, but it seems that we shall be working together for a while. I am L." _The voice was tinny, sounding decidedly higher and creepier than L's actual speech. "_I have been assigned to this case by the International Criminal Police Organization, known more generally as Interpol. They were recently convinced that the string of deaths that has been occurring indicates the presence of a potential murder plot. They request my assistance in this matter."_

Watari looked through his file with a critical eye, including a lengthy list of victims. "Gotham City was struck disproportionately by this plague of killings, with almost one third of the confirmed cases happening within city limits. There are now 52 known cases, and that trend continues," Watari noted. "We will need your assistance and the help of your best detectives to solve this case."

Gordon nodded warily. "...What do you need?"

"_I will need full access to your files, so that I can further deduce the particulars of this case. This includes times of death, any evidence of trespassing in any of the crime scenes, as well as the confirmed causes of death. My information so far merely notes a heart attack for the majority of victims, but this seems unlikely."_

"...Quite a few seem to have been literally, ah, frightened to death," Gordon replied. "There are some suspects that come to mind, but we are lacking in the usual evidence of their presence. The criminal known as the Joker, for example, is currently kept under lock and key at the local sanitarium. Even if he were to do a murder such as this, he would hardly clean up the evidence."

"_I will consider all possibilities. For now, the Gotham Broadcasting Network's cooperation should be commandeered, I believe. If we are dealing with an individual rather than a larger organization, there is a high chance that they are within Gotham's borders. There are ways in which we can confirm this particular hypothesis. Unfortunately, they would likely alert the general public to the murderer's presence, which may induce panic."_

"Gotham's people don't scare easily," Gordon objected. "Besides, all the deaths so far were among criminals of one sort or another. The only people that need to be afraid are lawbreakers."

"_That is an interesting statistic, indeed. Fifty-two criminal deaths. It implies that the killer, or killers, have a very warped sense of right and wrong. Perhaps they believe they represent justice, and they use fear as a tool, to end the criminal portion of society entirely."_

Gordon seemed a little uncomfortable. "Will you be working with us... like this?"

"_For now."_ L responded. "_Please alert your most trusted agents and gather them together at the precinct. We will need to coordinate our search with that of Interpol, and have a team ready to catch any suspect as soon as they become known to us."_

Watari pushed a file forward across the table. "Herein are the requirements of your command center. If you are lacking any electronics or other equipment, Interpol will deliver within two days. That is also how long you have to decide upon which colleagues get involved. All of them will be wearing equipment that will allow constant contact, even away from the precinct."

Gordon sighed. "This is a little more than just another crazy serial killer, isn't it?"

"_Yes. Even now, dozens of deaths may be slipping between the cracks for every one we find and connect to this pattern. We are dealing with someone who might well be approaching the most prolific serial killer in history, and certainly the fastest. Alternatively, it is a terrorist group like none before it. Either way, you need my help."_

"Fantastic," Gordon muttered as he got up. "More weirdoes in Gotham. Just what we need."

* * *

"_If the cause of death is not specified, the person will simply die of a heart attack."- _Rules of the Death Note


	3. Bugs and Bats

**Destroyer of Worlds**

**Case III - Bugs and Bats**

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"_After writing the cause of death, details of the death should be written in the next 6 minutes and 40 seconds." _- Rules of the Death Note

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Wayne manor stood silent, bathing in the evening rays of the sun. His steps muffled by the carpets, a lone figure was striding in the semi-darkness of the evening. Bruce did not bother with the lights - the twilight state of the corridors suited the man just fine. He moved in confidence, like the man who owns the place should.

Tonight Bruce looked especially lively and fresh - much more so than at any other time. He had taken Alfred's advice to heart and had spent most of day sleeping, the first good rest he could remember in the last few weeks, between his daily dealings and his nightly activities across the city. Now, with renewed vigor and determination he was ready to tackle the mystery. The encrypted key he had picked up at Iceberg Lounge was seconds from being fully deciphered, and were the circumstances one bit different, he would have already been in the Batcave, watching the process unfold.

However, there was yet another important issue that demanded his attention without delay. The surveillance equipment in his house had detected a strange signal, brief and weak, that certainly did not belong. Bruce was not going to dismiss a possible hole in the security network of his safe-haven, even if the signal had yet to repeat itself, considering the danger that could result from his identity becoming compromised.

Clutching a small phone-like device in his pocket, Bruce finally found Alfred, sipping from a cup as he warmed himself by the fireplace. As he was reasonably sure that no one else had entered the building in his valet's absence, whatever the source of the elusive signal was, it probably arrived together with his old friend.

"Good evening, Master Wayne, how was your day?" Alfred asked, raising an eyebrow. He looked only vaguely aware of Bruce's concerns; he only saw the worried expression for a short moment, and Wayne was once again wearing his cheerful careless billionaire mask.

"I was resting, as you suggested." Bruce stretched his arms a bit, quickly moving his right one back to the detector. He had to play on the safe side for a while - that meant no exact questions about what he wanted to hear, before he was sure that the bug did not include some audio, or worse, video feedback. If it was necessary, he could deploy an interference signal, but that could potentially tip off the culprit that he had discovered the bug. "How was yours? Did you check up on my jet?"

"It was in perfect working order, as it always is." Alfred shrugged, his eyes suddenly narrowing as he realized something was off. He did not hesitate to continue speaking, though. "The cleaning crew did not leave me anything to criticize, and the technical staff was eager to ensure me that all systems are at full capacity, and they are ready to fly at a moment's notice."

"And the airport itself?" Bruce paused for a second to confirm that the signal was there - varying intervals, hard to catch, unless you had sophisticated equipment, but he was certain he had found it. Too short and weak to even pierce the walls this time, but definitely present. Good, he could breathe easier. "Any trouble with the staff?" he asked distractedly, his fingers dancing over the device as he took it out of the pocket.

Alfred raised an eyebrow at seeing the gadget blinking with green lights."There was no trouble at all, really. In fact, the airport was even less crowded than it usually is, considering the time of day. Not a thing out of ordinary, I would say."

"I see." Bruce sighed, finally, and smiled. "Ah, that's where you are. Sneaky little thing."

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

Bruce looked up with a frown. "You haven't seen anyone from Interpol, I take it, but someone saw _you_, and decided to investigate you. You've been bugged."

"What?" Alfred looked stunned. "But the only people I spoke with were the airport's staff and an old acquaintance. No one got close enough to be able to slip something in my pockets!" He paused. "Well, there was a business card, I suppose..."

"Must have been that, then." Bruce took a step towards his trusted valet. "Could you show me?"

Alfred handed a small card holder over without a fuss, and Bruce quickly dug out the offending card, looking it over with great interest.

"Ronald Richardson," Bruce remarked, scanning the card more closely still. "Now that _is _sloppy. Giving us the name of the one responsible for this bug makes it much easier to track him down. It would have been a lot more sensible to plant a bug that wouldn't lead back to yourself. Although, if someone was operating with the assumption that this wouldn't be found, it's good enough. This Ronald Richardson of yours might have been unaware he is being tracked himself, too, which could mean it isn't his bug. Planting trackers in your target's business cards would ensure you know anyone he meets. What can you tell me about this man?"

"He's just an old acquaintance," Alfred started explaining. "He has been in Hotel business for quite awhile; I met him back at the - ahem, shortly after your parents..." He looked away. "In any case, he is a fellow Englishman of high class - good manners, great conversationalist, a brilliant mind. We have had a couple of meetings for tea at the place downtown - the one you said you will try out one day. Today, I can not say that he seemed any different from the man I knew. Older, but who does not age? He mentioned that the hotel business has been doing poorly of late, and he is now serving under someone else. Now that I think of it, he didn't mention any reason behind his visit. Probably a business trip, though."

"Did he at any point give away that he had access to such equipment?" Bruce finished scanning the card, putting it back into the case and giving it back to Alfred as the valet shook his head. "It's essentially harmless, since it only tracks your coordinates, and nobody would be surprised that you are near this house. We're going to leave it as it was, for now. It would be safe to assume that the culprit is smart enough to notice if you're not going to show up on his radar ever again."

Bruce lowered his scanner, and glanced at Alfred. "It's rather peculiar, this whole sequence of events. We have an Interpol agent who arrived without the usual fuss that follows them. Clearly trying to remain anonymous, as not to tip off anyone that someone important to the Midnight Murders case has arrived. That means that they believe the killer is in Gotham - or the agent is simply very careful. We also have Ronald, who is probably the agent in question, if we're going by this information alone. I'll have to dig into some databases to search for Ronald's Interpol involvement, or at least a case or two he might have worked on, but I am certain I'll find it. I believe his giving you the bugged card might not be a coincidence."

"How so, master Wayne?"

"Suffice to say that I have quite a bit of say in this city, and Interpol might believe that my involvement can be beneficial," Bruce said, smiling thinly. "Worst case scenario is that our killer has a network that is good enough to bug this Interpol agent, and by extension anyone he meets. That's unlikely, but easy to verify - there must be some more sophisticated bugs on Mr. Richardson if that is the case, since this one only tracks location. I'm going have to get near to him to check that theory. You mentioned a tea place - we're going to make use of it."

There was a short beep from his wristwatch, and Bruce stood up. "As for right now, we should go to the mainframe and see to something more important - I think it's going to prove to be a stepping stone in the Midnight Murders case."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Sal Maroni." Bruce was once again sitting in front of his monitors, with Alfred patiently standing beside him, his eyes on the screens as well. "So, what was that crime boss doing in the Iceberg Lounge, with an encrypted key that ended up in the Penguin's private safe?"

"I would not know, sir." Alfred paused, thinking. "Oswald Cobblepot's establishment had a colourful clientele, although I can not imagine why someone would bring an important key with them when going to spend a night there."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "It is a rather interesting development." He turned to Alfred. "You see, in the Lounge, I found this." He showed the man a small, black USB-key. "I have been trying to get my hands on one of these for quite a while; they are used to identify eligible buyers at a certain underground auction. Every customer get's a differently manufactured one, with a personal encryption on it. If anyone tries to enter without passing the security check early on, the merchandise never arrives, and the criminal gathering scatters."

Alfred sighed. "Only after they start shooting and release the dogs. I remember the last time you tried."

"That was just a scratch," Bruce muttered, rubbing his arm and continuing on his explanation. "In any case - the key carries another important trait - it can be used to connect to the temporary databases that these criminals use, and one can get information on the location and the merchandise offered at the auction. Drugs, weapons, exotic trophies - the Dealer is rather notorious in the right circles as a means to get _anything_."

"Do you think the key is Maroni's or the Penguin's?" Alfred asked. "They are both connected enough to have the status of a valued customer, I would imagine."

"I can't tell," Bruce mused. "There is the fact that the all complete fingerprints match Salvatore's, with a couple partial matches for one of the waitresses..." Bruce double checked the screen. "That would be Jay." He closed a couple of windows and established a connection with one of his relays in the city, plunging deep into Police networks. "Cobblepot and Maroni had a few disagreements, but nothing really major, just squabbles between their thugs in the streets. They mostly kept to themselves, and I can think of an only thing that could have united them."

"The push of the district attorney against crime," Alfred supplied. "It's all over the news, after all. Same with these new murders - conspiracy theories are running wild already."

"Precisely - and Penguin's plans could have used assistance by Maroni. We just need to check on the last sightings of the latter." He entered quick query into Gotham's Police Database. "It lists Sal Maroni as missing for the last two days. He might be lying low, or-"

"He has been murdered, the same as Cobblepot," Alfred agreed. "And you think it's the more likely scenario."

"It is infuriating." Bruce tapped his fingers on the keyboard. "Killing criminals this easily - it implies a network of such size and complexity that I must have stumbled upon it already, considering my own methods of surveillance. There's nothing there, though. Only loose connections and guesswork, shadows and mysteries. Is Penguin dead because of his plans for Gotham? Has Maroni been an accomplice, or not? What is the means used to kill them, if it is not direct? The best guess I have so far is a limited application of fear gas, but the police has it locked in their warehouse, and there's no trace of it at the scene. Unless there's another source, that's different..."

"Master Wayne, you're worrying too much." Alfred remarked lightly. "You should focus on a question at a time - when trying to get all the answers is too hard you need not think about them, just choose the one you can answer."

"Might as well." Bruce shrugged, moving his attention to yet another screen, and glancing down the list that was displayed. "I suppose I should follow my hunches, then. The Dealer claims to have access to some substance causing unnatural fear - would he even sell it to the one who is killing criminals, considering he might be the next victim? The Jonathan Crane angle is promising, but I feel like there's a danger of making a connection that isn't there, considering his fear gas has long been more widespread than just his person. He is under constant police surveillance, too, and I have seen no anomalies. Maybe this new substance is something on a completely different level than the one Crane used before? The heart attacks could be a side effect. It merits a more direct approach."

"Just be careful, Master Wayne." Alfred said uncomfortably. "You would not want to fall victim yourself."

"I know," Bruce said tiredly. "I will have to ask a few questions, and the Dealer had better know the answers. Before that, I think I'm going to pay a visit to an old friend, share some insights with him. I owe him that much."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

L leaned back in his chair with a long sigh, staring at the half-dozen screens with sleep-deprived eyes, though he had gotten used to little rest over the years, and the acute sharpness of his senses only seemed to increase as bedtime came and went. Before him, spread out over dozens of screens, were almost thirty different people of interest, followed by both internal and external cameras, alongside several that were moving – Watari's own.

"How would you estimate the current security of the establishment?" L asked lightly as he looked over the somewhat nervous-looking policemen that were wandering around the building. "There are an awful lot of surveillance tools for such a smallish precinct, compared to some."

"_They're all on guard,"_ Watari answered softly. _"I think they're just nervous about your presence, really. With this many people, it's going to leak eventually, you know. Someone will talk and people will realize that you're involved."_

"Probably, but I have enough time to get a good idea about these people. It will be interesting to see how long the secret remains." He paused. "The broadcast is set for tomorrow, which is when I'll officially become involved, even to the common public. I trust that they are able to shut up until then, at least."

"_Are you still going with that strange hypothesis…?"_

L frowned. "It is not strange, Watari. Each of the deaths was perpetrated seemingly without the killer's presence, which suggests that they are using some sort of designed molecule, something that will take a very precise time to kill someone, and possibly leads to psychosis at the onset of the final symptoms. That implies the chemical in question is administered close to the victim's death – and most of the deaths are in this city."

"_Some aren't, though."_

"Each of the deaths that I've researched are far enough apart that they could reach their location of death within a day or two, which is about as long as a theoretical compound like this could lay semi-dormant, according to my calculations. It cannot go fully dormant, or it would need some kind of local trigger to activate – and the timing of the deaths suggest that it was planned beforehand."

Watari sighed. "_This reminds me disturbingly much of _that_ case."_

"There is a compound that has properties which seem to match the symptoms observed in Mr. Cobblepot." L said slowly. "It is commonly known as Fear Gas, though it is actually a psychotropic compound designed by a disgraced medical professional, former Dr. Jonathan Crane. The man in question, however, is under house arrest, and has not left it for at least a month. His formula, however, might have been adapted by someone else."

"_Fear Gas? Are you saying these people were scared to death? That's pretty terrifying."_

"That seems to be the general idea," L agreed, and he frowned as several of his monitors flickered for a split second, before returning. "Watari – could you give me access to the local network, for a moment? I want to test a hypothesis."

Watari muttered something too softly for L to hear.

L drew his legs up, sitting in his usual posture as he nibbled on his thumb, taking in the rush of information that suddenly overtook half a dozen screens – visitor logs, video feed data, a cornucopia of private files that he had no interest in accessing. He scrolled through them at high speed, frowning. "This is from just now, isn't it?"

"…_Yes? Is something wrong?_"

"Yes. There was a successful attempt to access the police network, just twenty seconds before I requested access. Moments after it appeared, it vanished from the log. I am looking at it right now, frozen alongside the current state. An anonymous IP logged in, took data, and erased its own tracks, all in a span of less than half a minute. They were after information on Maroni." He narrowed his eyes. "A break-in like this should not be possible with our security measures. They were installed today, so it's nearly impossible that someone hacked those already."

L glanced over the log, expanding the information and setting the computer to work out an origin of the signal, though he was doubtful it could be found. The IP that had been used was local, from Gotham itself, and did not appear to be any one person's computer – if it was one, then a lot of the details were falsified outright somewhere along the line of making a connection. That should be impossible: You cannot simply avoid mentioning your details and then access information on a foreign server, not unless…

"Watari," L said sharply. "Get me Mr. Gordon, now."

"_Immediately. He is next door, I believe…" _There was a stumble as Watari picked up his laptop, moving quickly through the hall; L looked away from the sickeningly bouncing video screen and waited.

If L's own security software, some of the best in the world, bar none, didn't stop a transparently false connection, then something else was going on. The connection could not possibly be a normal one; it had to be made in a way that he had not anticipated, taking advantage of a production flaw or unfound exploit to worm itself through. That implied an intelligent mind with advanced knowledge, and interest in the case. It could well be the murderer himself, attempting to see how close the police were to catching him.

"_L?" _Commissioner Gordon's voice came, just as the haggard man appeared on the video screen. "_What can I help you with?_"

"The computers in your precinct," L started, slowly. "Tell me, how did you procure them? Did you buy them from a specific store, or were they provided by the government? Perhaps they were donated?"

Gordon frowned. "_I… we renovated a few years ago, and all the computers were replaced. I'm pretty sure the mayor was directly responsible for supplying the money, though it was the then-administrator that bought them. Why?_"

Not a donation, then. L almost pouted in disappointment. "I have reason to believe that someone has been accessing your database using illicit means, and I am not certain how the system was compromised. You have a wireless network, correct?"

"_Yes…"_

"Watari, please open one of the computers for me," L said after a moment. "The one in your current room will do, the police will not miss a single one. Please open the case and allow me to see inside; I have a suspicion."

L munched on a sugar-sprinkled cookie as he looked over his many screens, realizing just what it would mean if the Midnight Murderer was indeed hacking into the supposedly secure connection of the police department. Not only would Watari potentially be compromised, an intolerable event, but it could mean that all the cameras were spies upon their operation, rather than tools to find any accomplishes. The police station could not be the base to work from, not if his hunch was correct, here.

"_It's off," _Watari said, and the laptop camera was re-positioned, looking directly into the side of the case. "_Now what do I do?_"

"There is most likely a piece of hardware that is not supposed to be present. Please gently remove parts, and show them to me one by one, even those that you believe cannot be responsible." He glanced over two sticks of RAM, identical to factory model, alongside a hard disk and a network card that also seemed to check out. Finally, Watari removed the CPU, still attached to the other side of the case.

There, right on the edge of the block, innocuous and tiny, was something unfamiliar. L pulled up the plans for this particular model of CPU, and compared. He was right – there was something extra there.

"Please zoom in on the upper-left quadrant, Watari."

"_What do you see, L?"_

The little device, scarcely more than half a centimetre wide, had connections going directly to the CPU, the core of the computer's processing power. If someone were able to manipulate it, wirelessly, then perhaps it could be used to feed instructions directly into the processor, skipping everything else. The only reason that the connection was logged at all had to be because the data requested was sent back via the normal wireless network instead. But where?

"Please open it up," L said at last. "Ignore damage to the computer – I will provide funds to buy a new one, sans the device."

It took a few moments for Watari to retrieve a screwdriver and more to slowly loosen the tiny cap without shearing it off entirely, but finally it worked. The cap came off, unveiling a miniscule computer chip, with a tiny green LED.

"Definitely signalling," L muttered, It was a tiny, nearly undetectable little chip, hidden away on probably all of the police's computers, ready to leech data at request, most likely scrambled across a lot of them to prevent being tracked down to a specific location. This suggested a remarkable level of preparation, and an in-depth knowledge of the technology. If it was the murderer's doing, then L might face a challenge yet.

"Please remove all surveillance equipment from the room you are presently in," L said. "Mr. Gordon, the same counts for you. This includes anything that could be used to spy on you – computers, cell phones, hearing aids, everything. The precinct is compromised."

"_I will do so immediately,_" Watari said; most likely he had understood the implication. His identity, too, could be found out.

"_What do you mean, compromised?" _Gordon asked, looking on helplessly as Watari removed the most obvious of the surveillance cameras by simply pulling them off the wall, and snapping the connecting wire. "_What was in that computer, precisely?"_

"As of right now, we should operate as if our suspect has access to everything we do," L replied. "Until that is no longer true, this will be my last direct communication." He pressed a red button on his keyboard, and the connection was terminated. He could still speak to Watari, of course, but that was different.

"Watari, I am going to see if I can find anything that might illuminate the origin of these devices. Find a safe alternative location, and make sure that this specific room stays clear, in case we need to speak to someone at the precinct. I wish to set up an alternate location to which we can transfer the most reliable officers."

"_A hotel, like the last case?"_

"Feel free to choose somewhere that is suitable," L noted. "Inform me when you are done with this, and keep on guard, especially in the dark."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was late at night, and L stared dispassionately at the clock as it slowly ticked to midnight, wondering whether or not there would be another death, another casualty to add to the list. Most of his screens were darkened or only displaying an empty, unlit room; there was almost nobody at the police station, and even Watari had gone for a nap.

With the revelation that someone was keeping an eye on the investigation already, and had been for some time, came more questions than he could easily explain, and a whole new host of problems. If the murderer had been watching for years, then why did his activities suddenly escalate to murder now? There was no evidence that the computers had been opened since their arrival, which meant that the device on the CPU's had likely been placed years earlier, when the killing spree had not yet started.

Recent crime reports were fairly silent – it was clear that the crime circuit had realized someone was picking them off, and they had limited their activities to only those they needed to maintain their empire. L frowned when he came across a recent incident report, labelled as unimportant, about a dust-up at a local club. It was a lounge club that was frequented by some criminal elements, including Mr. Cobblepot, which is why it had popped up on the radar at all. Several locals had gotten into conflict with the 'Batman', a vigilante, after which the latter had left without apparently taking anything of value.

"The Batman," L murmured. "Ostentatious and dramatic, don't you think?" He blinked, and frowned. Watari wasn't here to listen to him, which meant he was talking to an empty room. Boring.

He pulled up his file on that particular figure – most of what he had consisted of speculation and hearsay, but there was a lot of it, spanning years. The general consensus he had discerned was that the Batman was a vigilante who opposed local crimes, responsible for quite a few arrests over the years, particular of those criminals who had a similar flair for the dramatic. He dressed up in a gaudy bat suit, imagining himself as a sort of icon of the city, and only seemed to come out at night.

L shook his head as he ran a hand through his hair, realizing that he could use a shower when it felt rather greasy. He ignored that, in favour of one of the few clear photographs of the man; it showed a man in what looked like black body armor and a cowl with pointed ears on top, and a long dark cape down his back. The very idea of running around in a costume like that, chasing criminals, just seemed bizarre to L.

Still, there were some things of concern, here. The man obviously used a bat as his symbol, a signature that had long been associated with death. Among the local criminal underground he was practically a boogeyman, a shady figure that they knew existed but which always seemed larger than life, swooping in from above like some dark avenger. This was someone who went out to fight criminals in the dead of night, using their fear against them. What could happen if someone like that, already mentally disturbed, escalated?

"Suspect One: 'Batman'." L shook his head. "That sounds ridiculous."

He mused over the possibility of this peculiar individual being the perpetrator of the midnight murders; someone who was already at home in the night, and had gotten into conflict with Jonathan Crane on several occasions. Perhaps he knew enough to find where Crane kept his fear gas. He was also, if reports were correct, equipped with a wide array of advanced mechanical tools and contraptions, including remote-controlled thrown weapons. The Batman was clearly not a random nut; he was both intelligent and resourceful.

So, was it _him_ that tapped into the network?

L frowned. Tomorrow there would be a broadcast, an opening shot in his duel with the killer. He would have someone speak in his place, calling out the criminal, and he would see what happened from there. Judging the reaction would be an excellent way of assessing his opponent's mentality.

Though his hunch about the method of killing was still the fear gas, he had kept several anomalous cases to himself, studying them independently of Watari, so as not to colour his friend's perceptions of what he found in Gotham. These were cases that did not fit the pattern, ones that seemed entirely impossible to pull off easily.

He would know, tomorrow, whether his nightmare scenario was correct.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Commissioner Gordon was carrying a rather large plastic bag in his hands, taking out the trash. He looked rather exhausted, his pace heavy and unsteady - the day had been too long, and it was still not over. He had been working overtime to cater to the demands of L: some of these being rather pricey both in time and budget.

With a lot of years of practice, he felt the presence descending on the nearby emergency staircase as the trash can lid was shut closed, and he let out a small, tired, sigh. He turned in time to hear the first words of the masked vigilante, the Batman.

"The storm is here."

The heavy voice rang in Gordon's ears. He glanced back inside the house, where his son was calmly drinking tea; thankfully he had not noticed the arrival. Of course, the sound of late night news playing in the background muffled the outside noise enough. Gordon took a few steps back, closed the door as quietly as he could, and stared at Batman uncertainly. The vigilante spoke again. "The city is getting restless because of the murders, and the police isn't quite enough about solving them. The criminals are afraid, the policemen are confused, the citizens are watching with a desperate hope that this killing spree won't spill over to them. It is not easy to scare Gotham, but it is happening."

"Why are you here?" Gordon asked tiredly. "No cryptic stuff tonight, please."

"I have come to speak to you about Cobblepot."

"That case hasn't turned up anything just yet," Gordon said as he leaned against the nearby wall. "They still don't know you were there, although they might find out, since you made such a show at the Iceberg Lodge. Whatever that was about, I can't even imagine."

Batman grumbled. "I have found some documents you might be interested in, that are relevant to the case. The heist Penguin tried to pull, shortly before his demise, with Sal Maroni. He was gathering dirt on politicians and the district attorney, ready to knock the legs out of a lot of important people."

"Harvey Dent?" Gordon asked, frowning. "That man is as clean as they come, but everyone knows that Sal Maroni is out for his blood - nothing more to find there."

"Perhaps, but there exists a connection between Salvatore Maroni and the Penguin; the former has hated Harvey since he started his crusade against the mob, and the latter was smart enough to try and undermine the attorney's power before he earned himself a crusade of his own. The motive here is clear enough. As for the execution - the Penguin seems to have used some sort of inside source: there are too many copies of the files from Harvey's office. I'm giving every single one I found to you, so do with them as you wish. There's an envelope in your post box."

"This is going to raise a lot of questions," Gordon said with a sigh. "If the papers don't have any names on them, they're useless for the investigation, you know that."

"Tell them it was an anonymous tip, and keep an eye out for anything strange around Harvey Dent."

"You are going to leave this matter to the police, for once?"

"I have my own work to do," Batman said slowly.

There was a knock at the door from inside, and Gordon went to open them, knowing that the vigilante would probably use the moment to leave, as always. Right on cue, there was a fluttering sound, and he did not have to look back to make sure.

"Dad," there was a muffled voice from inside. "You left your phone on the table, and there was a call from the station. I was to tell you that they found someone called Maroni, down at the docks."

"What?" Gordon almost slammed the door open, the fatigue bearing tall on his face. "Just now?"

Bruce was already on his way to the crime scene. He just managed to catch something about not using other people's phones without permission, before completely disappearing into the darkness.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

_Salvatore Vincent Maroni was a man with a vision. He was sitting on top of his own little world, built on the crime and pain of others. His wealth was forged with violence, hardened in the lives of innocent people. And it all had come to an abrupt ending. Salvatore had been dead for a couple of days before someone found him, just another bloated corpse floating in the water at Gotham City's docks. In death, a national crime syndicate's boss was no different from a made man._

_Since I wasn't the first to the scene I would have to wait for the Police autopsy results, but even seeing the body from afar had been useful. I could estimate the time of death, and it was most likely the same night of Cobblepot's demise, or even the night before that._

_The Midnight Murderer once again proved to be systematic with his chosen victims, removing potential complications before they even became an issue. Both Oswald and Salvatore plotted against Harvey Dent and had been found dead one after another. This was proving to be a good challenge; it had been some time since the stakes were as high as they were now, since I had to question my sense of justice. Criminals were dying at the hand of other criminals - and I was going to stop it._

_Despite it, or rather, because of it, I felt more alive than I had in ages. Only a shadow could catch a shadow in this game. And it was _my turn_ to move._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"_The notebook shall become the property of the human world, once it touches the ground of (arrives in) the human world."_ - Rules of the Death Note.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


	4. Smoke and Mirrors

**Destroyer of Worlds**

**Case IV - Smoke and Mirrors**

* * *

"_The human who uses the notebook can neither go to Heaven nor Hell._" - Rules of the Death Note

* * *

The 'King's Tea' was not a famous establishment, nor did it have particularly many visitors, even on a good day. It carried a certain air of Britishness, and even though the waiters were decidedly American, it was no surprise that Alfred liked the place. The furniture was exclusively made from natural wood, and the main hall practically hummed with a homely atmosphere.

The clients of the teahouse visited the place for its quiet, soothing music, and relaxation that was difficult to come by in a bustling city. One could leave a lot of worries behind, sitting there with a tastefully decorated cup of Elminster tea, taking in the delicious aroma, and soaking in the pleasant taste. There were also small snacks available, even for those without the sweet tooth.

The warmth of the room clashed with the chillingly cold rain outside, and dozens of umbrellas and jackets littered the hangers, dripping remnants of rain onto the floor. Alfred held his hands by a small fireplace, almost as warm as the one he maintained at Wayne Manor for the colder nights. The light of the flames was dancing across the room, illuminating the nearby tables with intermittent brightness.

A small bell rang, signalling that someone had just arrived at the entrance. Alfred took his place at the table nearest to the fireplace, taking in the new arrival with interest, especially after Bruce's revelations about the man's peculiar calling card. Ronald Richardson was followed by a small gust of wind and the splatter of water, and steam rose from his raincoat as he closed the door behind him to keep the heat in.

Alfred met the eyes of his acquaintance, and nodded pleasantly. "Good day," he said as he stood to shake the man's hand. "Rather ghastly weather today, it seems. I feel sorry for offering to meet under such dreary conditions, in retrospect."

"No matter, no matter." Ronald shrugged off the comment. "I'm sure a cup of good tea will make up for the trip. I hope you did not have to wait too long; I had a little trouble with the arrangement." He grimaced. "My employer got out of the wrong side of his bed, I believe – if he went to sleep at all."

"I have only just arrived myself," Alfred assured calmly.

"Hmmm," Ronald shrugged, sitting down across from Alfred as he looked at the other man's cup. "Do you have a particular recommendation for a specific beverage? I'm not familiar with local blends."

"I appreciate the sweeter teas," Alfred noted. "You may call the waiter to make something for you, or do so yourself, here at the table." He smiled, enjoying his own cup. "I hope I didn't get you into trouble with your boss, by the way – you could certainly have turned down my offer if it was an inconvenience."

Ronald nodded, rubbing his ear slightly as he poured a cup of hot water, taking the first flavour of tea he came across. "I have been quite busy. My employer has been a bit antsy of late, due to what has been happening here in Gotham. He seems to think that the city is cursed."

"Cursed?"

"Well, I didn't say it was a very rational concern," Ronald noted with a small smile. "He seems to believe that with murderers and vigilantes running all over the city, the market here could crash at a moment's notice. Granted, Gotham seems more than capable of taking care of its own problems, but still." He frowned. "Naturally, that's a concern for anyone who settles here."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, recognizing the hook in that statement. Suddenly, Ronald did not seem so innocent anymore; he was looking for information. "I am certain that the police -"

There was a muffled sound, a distant rumble; after a few moments it resolved into the loud noises of a powerful motor that approached at speed. The sound slammed rudely into the calm atmosphere of the little tea place, and people glanced towards the entrance in confusion, while Alfred groaned. The sound ended suddenly, and was followed by the slamming of a car door. Strange giggling sounds were followed by a couple of scantily clad young women who burst into the establishment. They were slightly wet because they ran the couple of meters in the rain from a black, expensive car that was parked at the entrance.

"Oh dear, I see he brought the _women,"_ Alfred muttered, before turning to Ronald. "I am terribly sorry for this," he said with a sigh. "I have been trying to persuade Master Wayne to come for years, to no avail. I never imagined he would choose today. I suppose he was curious when I mentioned him I had an appointment..." He rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Let's pray that he does not ruin my reputation."

Bruce Wayne, as if on cue, strolled in like he owned the place. That was a distinct possibility, though Alfred was certain for once that this particular tea house was still owned by Joffrey, a long-time acquaintance of his. Bruce met Alfred's eyes for a moment as he looked with interest around the little cosy room, which seemed suddenly overly full with him in it. Everyone was watching the man as he swept his beautiful female companions into his arms, and headed straight for the table in the centre, a bit to the side of the one Alfred and Watari were sitting at with their steaming cups. They were the most visible seats around – that was no surprise.

"Oh dear," Alfred said again. Bruce had actually never visited the tea house before, that was the truth, and now he was acting like his public image demanded – which meant that outside of business deals, he lacked a little something in maturity and tact. Alfred hoped dearly that he knew what he was doing.

* * *

"_He does know how to make an impressive entrance,_" L said reluctantly, and Watari had to suppress a sardonic response as he took in the loud and boisterous millionaire with barely concealed unease.

"Please ignore the intrusion," Alfred murmured as he glanced to the man and back, flushing with embarrassment. "If I had known he would come..."

"It's no trouble," Watari replied easily, glancing with narrow eyes between the uncomfortable valet and his boisterous master. "I know a thing or two about immature employers, if you recall. I wish that intruding upon my private meetings was the worst mine had done."

"_I am beginning to suspect you enjoy these insinuations." _L commented darkly._ "It is interesting that someone such as Wayne would appear just when you are meeting his valet, isn't it? Still, your friend seems suitably surprised, which might suggest that Wayne took advantage of the man to find out about your presence here. He is a successful businessman, after all. It is understandable."_

"It's what you would do," Watari muttered under his breath as he held his cup before wasn't sure if L was ascribing sociopathy to Wayne, or genius, or something else entirely. Thankfully, Watari wasn't the one who had to make that assessment.

"_Bruce Wayne is loud, egocentric, and clearly has a poor self-image if he must support it by means of women and fast cars. Not unusual for a child born in wealth who inherited it at an early age without working for it."_ L cleared his throat_. "He is also an accomplished actor."_

Watari did not ask how L had figured out something like that – probably some subtle movement, some gesture that was a little too forced, maybe a momentary expression when Wayne thought nobody was looking. He stared at Wayne as the man entertained his two companions with something that looked a lot more like wine rather than tea. For a split second, the man glanced his way, and Watari felt like when L was staring at him with that unreadable expression of his – a shrewd businessman was hidden under all that bravado, studying a new person of interest. Suddenly, L's assessment seemed far more plausible.

"Ladies!" Bruce called suddenly, and he quickly walked towards the fireplace. Watari almost cringed as dozens of people looked over at the commotion, and Alfred buried his face in his hands with a sigh. "Look who we have here! You owe the discovery of this incredibly cosy place to this lovely Englishman!"

"_It seems that Wayne seems quite content with manipulating the situation to favour his ends - not uncommon among the shrewd, admirable in many ways."_

"You _would _say that," Watari murmured as he smiled congenially at the new arrival. One of the girls on Wayne's arms said something that could have been a thanks, while the other looked too busy playing with his hair to pay attention, which the man looked to be rather pleased with.

"Good day, Master Wayne," Alfred said as he stood up, and he nodded his head in greeting, though rather more stiffly than seemed proper. Watari looked away, trying not to show his pity for Alfred's embarrassment. "I wasn't expecting you to follow up on my offer _today_, of all days."

"Well, I always keep my promises," Bruce argued. "Sit down, Alfred, I don't want to spoil your meeting with your..." He paused turning to Watari, who had stood up as well. "...friend," he finished looking down the old Englishman. "My name is Bruce Wayne, and you might have seen it spelled on a couple of buildings in the city. And you are?"

Watari smiled thinly, bravely holding up appearances. "Ronald Richardson, a pleasure to meet you. Bruce Wayne, eh? I have heard you're one of the best Gotham has to offer."

"_Come now, Watari. That was corny. Surely you have more wit than this?"_

"I like to think I have some importance," Wayne agreed, nodding, and his smile slipped momentarily. "I have heard very few things about you, Mr. Richardson, was it? Alfred only mentioned me of your arrival in the city. Pleasure to meet you."

"I assure you, the pleasure is mine," Watari said, nodding courteously. "Please, take a seat."

Bruce lowered himself into one of the large chairs, and the two girls behind him giggled as he distractedly played with their long hair. "You're in business, I understand? Hotels? I dabble myself, though the brunt of it is taken care of by Fox - a business manager of mine."

"_Lucius Fox - I already have him on file. I wonder whether Mr. Fox is responsible for the impressive security systems within Wayne's manor?" _There was a silence for a time, followed by the unmistakable noise of crumbling cookies. "_Most interesting..." _L said while munching on his snack.

Trying to ignore L's mutterings, Watari smiled. "The hotel business has been in trouble of late, with this economy - you must understand. People are prone to remain at home, or to go to smaller, cheaper venues. The very best hotels are simply forgotten. It is something I intend to change on behalf of my employer."

"Perhaps he and I know each other - I am well-connected," Bruce said. "Regardless, it is nice to meet you." He laughed lightly. "These two lovely ladies are Cindy and Diana, by the way. I can practically feel their impatience - and something else."

"Samantha," one of the girls corrected, not insulted in the slightest. "Not Cindy. Cindy's got long, red hair."

"My apologies, Samantha," he pronounced her name by dragging the word for a few seconds, a lot more than was necessary. "I won't forget it again. How about we sit down somewhere private and finally have some good tea?"

"Waiter," he called, and the slightly nervous man hovering nearby the whole time, took cue to approach him. "I'd like a few cups of the best tea you have for me, Diana, and Samantha. And put everything these two gentlemen ordered on my tab, too. It's the least I can do for my valet, I think."

Watari didn't even start to protest when Bruce turned back to him, and explained. "I have interrupted your meeting - it's just my way of saying I'm sorry, I promise. Had I known Alfred wasn't alone, I wouldn't have intruded this much." And he was looking back at the waiter. "What would you recommend to go with the tea, sir?"

As he walked away with his two women in tow, L spoke. "_An obvious attempt at misdirection, his claimed apology. Wayne was looking for an opportunity to take stock of you, either because he is overly interested in his valet's personal acquaintances, or because he found the card you left with him. We had best assume the worst." _L paused, and there was grumbling sound over the line. "_Watari - where did you leave my cake?"_

Watari sighed. "Second cupboard to the left," he murmured.

"_It had better be there."_

"Hmmm?" Alfred raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"

Watari smiled tiredly. "I could use a snack, I believe. My stomach's practically talking to me."

* * *

_I had seen enough. Ronald Richardson had been the man I thought he was. An agent, or at the very least, a very paranoid businessman. My sensors had found an impressive amount of tracers and bugs - there were at least three different complex groups of devices hidden beneath or within his suit alone. Audio and visual recording, geo-location, possibly communication. One even seemed to be pulsing in tune with the man's heartbeat._

_The approximate placement of these, couple with their sheer number, implied cooperation of their carrier. No sane spy would go to such lengths to bug an unwilling person. Every bug increased the chance of being detected, thus the only logical conclusion - this jungle of devices had to have been deliberate on Ronald's part. This meant that either the man constantly reviewed the recorded information, trying to catch what he had missed from the conversations, or that he had a whole team of collaborators, watching the scene from afar. Of course, that could explain why he had bugged Alfred, too. The man simply had enough bugs to leave one with everyone he met._

_I was ready to leave, to do further research, but for one peculiar happenstance. Because in that moment, the music went suddenly silent._

* * *

The large television on the eastern wall, which had been playing soft music to the image of a picturesque little village, suddenly showed a bright black-and-yellow text instead. Ronald had quieted down, and was watching it with a frown. Someone had just asked for increased volume and the sound was suddenly loud enough for all to hear. There was some sort of formal announcement, and Bruce caught a glimpse of Gotham's Police logo in the corner of the screen. Intrigued, he stopped his cup mid-air and turned to watch.

"_This is a special report from the Gotham Police Department. As of this morning, there is confirmation of a serial killer, active in the greater Gotham area. The police will be issuing an official statement on the matter within several minutes. Nobody should go out alone at night, except in direst emergency, until this matter is resolved."_

Bruce frowned. He had heard nothing from his sources within the Police department - much less from Gordon - about an imminent broadcast. Alfred glanced nervously at him - he ignored the look, though he understood the underlying warning. The mystery man, Ronald, was staring at the screen with discomfort, rubbing his ear.

"_Good evening," _said a voice on the television, and Bruce's gaze snapped back to the screen. The person on the television looked tired, with heavy bags under his eyes, and his long black locks hung down his face haphazardly. He sat behind a large desk with a little sign on it that showed his name. 'Lind. L. Tailor.'

"Oh, you're not telling me that's..." Bruce muttered to himself.

"_Please allow me to introduce myself. I am known as L." _The figure said, staring into the camera. "_I am a criminal investigator that is presently engaged in tracking down a suspected serial killer, known to the police as the Midnight Murderer, named for the time of his crimes." _He paused. "_Hello, Midnight. It was inevitable that we would clash. Don't worry, this war will be short."_

"Good lord," Ronald said under his breath, wiping his forehead.

"_I know how people like you work, Midnight," _the man said_. _"_I know what you are doing. You believe you are working for justice. You think that taking out the darkest elements of society in brutal displays of merciless judgement makes you a hero - but justice is not vigilantism, nor is murder an acceptable means of punishment for these crimes. You do not have the authority to decide such matters. You are not a _god_."_

Bruce narrowed his eyes as he stared at the screen. He suddenly had a creeping feeling that he knew where this was going - and it was not good. He knew about the man named L, and he highly doubted the one on the screen was really that person. The legendary detective, sometimes rumoured to hold the top three spots as best detective of the world under three different names, would hardly unveil himself so publicly. But he would certainly zero in on any of the more unusual elements of Gotham, especially by making a statement like this - and that meant he was after Batman too.

"_Hunting those who you believe guilty of crimes is crossing a line into crime yourself - and that is why I am going to stop you. Because you are just a spectre of the night, a ghoul, incapable of understanding what justice really is." _He crossed his arms. "_I will not stop until I have found you - and then you will rot in prison for the rest of your days, reflecting on your misdeeds." _The screen quite suddenly blinked back to the normal news, where a few baffled pundits took a moment to get back to their normal programming.

"Well, that was dramatic," Bruce said easily, raising an eyebrow. "As if Gotham did not have enough vigilantes - let's add a serial killer and a detective with a chip on his shoulder."

Ronald sighed as he turned away from the screen. "Murderers on the loose, and all the other boogiemen of the night... Gotham's a creepy place these days."

"Perhaps, but it's still home." Bruce stood up, urging the girls to join him - he would need to take the presence of L into account - and double the security of all his facilities. He turned to Ronald with a false smile. "I should really go. This is truly a nice place, I might even think about buying this place. Wayne Landing, it has a ring to it." He grinned, without a care in the world. "It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Richardson." He waved the waiter with his credit card and entered the code when prompted. "If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call." He quickly procured a small business card of Wayne Enterprises to give the man, and distractedly accepted one of Ronald's, putting it next to his credit card. He would need to analyse it later, and see if he could triangulate the home position based on the different signals of the two cards he now had in his possession.

"Thank you very much," Ronald agreed, smiling.

"Alfred, please make sure the dinner is ready for my return," Bruce said, and his eyes met his valet's for a split second. "I'll be in the manor in-" he looked at the smiling ladies. "Let's say five hours - give or take one. I've got a few promises to keep." He turned and waved as he strode to the exit. It was time to further his own investigation. L's presence would complicate matters.

* * *

He was going to be late to dinner, again, Bruce realized, fixing his cowl in place. It was the fault of his innate paranoia - he had plans for the next night, and that meant he could not just go in blind, taking a leap of faith. Not when so much could be at stake. Thus - his current location, and the last preparations. The coordinates he wrangled from the Dealer's key helped him to find the approximate location of the meeting place. Even if the auction would not be taking place on the exact place Sal Maroni was expected to arrive at, the true hideout was supposed to be somewhere near. And it was his very intention to find it, under cover of darkness and blanket of heavy rain. The matter of L would have to wait.

The problem now was that he had to be very careful, so as not to scare the Dealer by his presence. That meant moving slowly and with incredible precision. The guards usually employed dogs with a passion, trained to warn them about any intruders sneaking around, but this time, the heavy rain was on Batman's side. It was like the nature decided that after leaving the city alone for a couple of weeks, it just had to return with an unrelenting determination to flood everything. The rain had been falling for the whole day, and it did not look that it was going to end anytime soon. That was a perfect setup for throwing off any trace of his scent.

The masked vigilante stood on the highest point of the small warehouse complex - on the very top of the tower crane, overlooking the men moving below. Heavy raindrops flowed down his shoulders, onto his cloak and joined their brethren on the long fall to the ground. Batman had a small camera to mount - he was reasonably sure that he had found the best place for the auction to be held at, and figured out a perfect angle for observation. He'd have preferred to have a video feed from the inside, of course, but it wasn't a night for risks, not when a wrong step would have cost him his lead.

A couple of tired men were making rounds around the complex. With dogs, as expected - but Batman would have been surprised if the hounds could smell further than their nose in such a downpour. The guards met every couple of minutes, exchanging pleasantries and complaining about the weather - their patrol pattern, sadly, did not confirm if the Batman's initial choice had been correct, but at least he knew that something was going to happen in the area tomorrow.

Continuing his work, he allowed his mind to wander - setting up a transmitter was something he could do in his sleep, and he had his mind to sort out before returning to Wayne Manor. The shadow game of this on-going case was getting more difficult by the minute. Interpol involvement signified inconvenience, and the measures their agents took were so overboard that it lifted a red flag in his mind.

The coincidental arrival of Ronald Richardson, and the apparent paranoia of the Interpol - including how vast the surveillance equipment on the man was, had pointed only at a couple of suspects. Coupled with the recent broadcast it left only one true possibility - Ronald was under employment of the elusive L.

After all, who was a paranoid detective that Interpol called upon when the cases were too difficult for them to handle? When you took a list of people who could have access to such equipment and would be able to find his transmitters in the police department _and _worked with the police, there was but one man who could be responsible.

His guess was confirmed by the _show _that aired that very day - and in all the numerous meanings of the world, most seemed to fit perfectly. A show, a provocation, a challenge, maybe even bait - for a renowned, yet secretive detective, to reveal himself this way was unthinkable. It had to be an attempt to force the Midnight Murderer to move and walk into a trap. He was curious as to the outcome - the Lind L. Tailor, if that was the man's true name, would be kept under constant observation.

Batman allowed himself a content smirk - working on the assumption that Ronald Richardson worked for L and had detectors monitoring his heart rate, Tailor would likely be watched with even bigger scrutiny, bringing the term _under constant observation _to the whole new level.

He'd have to acquaint himself with L's other works, the Batman mused to himself, moving on to set another device with infrared coverage of the whole warehouse area - just in case he had to retreat tomorrow. Knowing the playfield and the moves of the opponent would give him a distinct advantage.

He stilled. It would be a perfect advantage, wouldn't it? L, in essence, was an unknown, an entity with resources deep in the police and Interpol network - with a vast array of tools and information at his disposal. What was more, the man was supposed to be a genius - and, judging by the sacrificial pawn he just put in the Midnight Murderer's sights - wasn't above killing to get what he needed. The worst case scenario was a murderer in charge of his own murder investigation - and no one would be the wiser. Batman would have to prepare accordingly, however unlikely the event was.

That left only one question hanging - if L was the one responsible for the deaths, what was that drove his attention to Gotham? Could it be that for his crusade against criminals, he simply chose a place with more of them to start with? Or perhaps he chose to represent both halves of the equation, on both sides of the thin line that he as the Batman straddled - a grotesque play against himself, disappointed in the challenge others could offer? On the one hand, the killer who murdered for justice, on the other, the genius detective who would do anything to bring such people into custody?

Even when he achieved a drop of invaluable information, he could not make full use of it. Not by investigating Ronald, in any case. His opposition would notice something was wrong at the slightest mistake, and that would compromise Alfred. That was an unacceptable outcome - Bruce Wayne wasn't the kind of man to sacrifice others for his goals.

His work finished, he waited until the guards weren't looking in his direction, spread his wings that hardened into a glider in a moment, and jumped. The dark shape cut through the curtain of rain, disappearing without a trace.

Only a small, unobtrusive lens continued to watch the stormy night.

* * *

Lind L. Tailor should have been calm and collected. He had done what they asked of him, adhering to the script to the letter, playing the part of a detective. They had promised to reduce his sentence, and all manner of other small pleasures - he had just finished smoking a Cuban cigar, one of his more outrageous requests, yet they surprised him by managing to procure him two - and they were the real deal.

The smoke allowed him the outward appearance of relaxation, even as he felt everything but calmness - there was a nagging feeling that he should have refused the offer. The thought that he should have gone with the death sentence was silly, to say the least, but now the wait was killing him. People in charge, he knew, were watching him under a live feed, and there were detectors under his skin, many lenses of cameras glimmering from all kinds of odd angles.

With that sort of scrutiny in observation, he couldn't help but give in to silent panic. They believed that there was a chance someone would kill him - with all the guards and security in the way. It was insane - but still, how could he be calm with _that _hanging over his head?

The seat Lind was sitting it, even though really soft and comfortable at first, was now chafing him a little. He shifted a bit, trying to find a better position, sure that the shift in his centre of mass was constantly being measuring by some sort of detectors underneath. He had seen the small wires in the chair - what else could they be for? He scratched the armrests with his nails - at least they hadn't tied him up.

There was a guard standing right on the other side of his glass cell - he had heard a short conversation about filtering out any possible gasses, and seen the borderline obsession with double checking his food and drinks.

His thoughts returned to the whole mess he was in. It was inconceivable, but they were expecting something to happen to him, inside a glass cage, surrounded by cops and surveillance equipment.

He should have asked for more cigars.

Lind's eyes widened, focusing on something just before him, and though he tried to scream, nothing would emerge. His whole body twitched in a strange spasm, some inner daemon taking over. Then, his arms, trembling with a stinging tension, rose up like a puppeteer was moving them. Lind glanced at the well groomed nails, moving towards his face with an inhuman determination. Confusion and fear found way into his expression as he took a long, hissing breath and plunged the sharp nails deep into his own eyes.

There was an alarm going off somewhere, as the guard tried to get into the room in time, but Lind ignored everything. He was howling in pain, blood flowing down his face in two endless streams of bloody tears, his nails were digging deeper and deeper, scratching, tearing, pulling, squeezing. He screeched with inhuman intensity, his nails fractured, spasms travelling through his whole body. His voice was desperate, ringing with strange echoes in the glass chamber.

The guard tore the door open at the very same moment the man suddenly went limp, his left arm falling down with a silent thump, sending a torn out eye splashing and rolling on the floor - the other hand was still stabbed deep into the eye socket, blood and gurgling noises pouring outside through the frozen fingers.

As wet, rolling eye stopped at his heavy boot, the guard's expression fell and he doubled over, heaving, pouring the last dinner on the floor.

* * *

_If the time of death is written within 40 seconds after writing the cause of death as a heart attack, the time of death can be manipulated, and the time can go into effect within 40 seconds after writing the name._ - Rules of the Death Note

* * *

**Omake:**

"Master Wayne, you should certainly try the olives," Alfred offered, as he served a midnight meal. "They are freshly plucked, and quite delectable."

Bruce nodded distractedly, puffing on a Cuban cigar as he looked into the silent night.


End file.
